


Two's Company

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:33:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Juan rails against team orders, and Ralf reminds him of his position.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two's Company

Juan slammed shut the door to the motorhome and for a moment leant against it, almost undone by his rage. It was purely non-directional: it had to be, because otherwise he'd have lashed out at Patrick and possibly even Frank as well, and that would have been a sure-fire way to get his ass booted out of the team even faster than it seemed to be going of its accord. In parc ferme Patrick had made all the right noises about him driving to a well-deserved second place, and how pleased he was that the second Williams one-two of the season had lifted the team high in the Constructor's Championship to grapple with Ferrari; and then Patrick, being blunt and caustically to the point, had said: "Shame you haven't made more of an effort this year. Never mind, we all know what a moderately-talented number two driver can achieve when he applies himself."

Normally, the merest suggestion that Williams - that most communist of teams still operating under capitalist guise – could be anything less than unbiased towards its drivers would have the paddock in a laughing fit. After all, this was the team that had sacked no less than three World Champions. This was the team that wrote _No team orders_ in blood upon their contracts. And yet today, Juan had had proof that even the mighty unbiased could rock from their comfortable seats in the moral high ground, should the rewards offered be great enough.

And what a reward it promised to be: the double whammy of Driver's and Constructor's Championship, won at the last by the outsider with the pedigree but not the previous form.

Juan cursed aloud and thumped his fist against the door. It hurt his hand, but at least it gave some vent to his anger. Why – why! – did Ralf suddenly have to become so bloody perfect? Now everybody thought the sun shone out of his arse, and because of this sudden upswing in performance, he'd got the radio message this afternoon: _Hold station_.

He'd questioned it. Anybody in their right mind would question it. There was enough of the race left to run, and he'd worked damn hard to open up a gap back to Kimi, whose race seemed to Juan to be pretty lacklustre in any case. Why the hell shouldn't he challenge Ralf for the lead? It wasn't as if he was going to take them both off the track, not when everyone else was circulating like constipated slugs around a cabbage leaf; and it certainly wasn't that Ralf was really on the limit, either. In fact, he'd started to drop back and cruise along in the arrogant assumption that just because he was at the front, then he'd cross the line first and win the race.

That was just the sort of arrogant assumption that Juan liked to prove wrong, and he was all set to do so when the team had told him no. They hadn't actually forbidden it – oh no, they were better than that – but the implication was there: let Ralf win, he's better than you. He'll win the Championship for us, and you can ride shotgun… just like Rubens.

"Fucking arseholes!" Juan spat, banging the door again; and then he heard it: a low, soft chuckle.

"Connie?" He went forwards, pushing away from the door, frowning. He thought his wife was in the hospitality suite, and he certainly hadn't expected anyone else to be here so soon after the end of the race.

"Guess again," said that arrogant, autocratic and at the moment, quite affable voice that Juan recognised as belonging to only one person – Ralf.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Juan greeted him, ducking around the lounge area with its long sofas and thick carpeting to find his team-mate leaning against the tiny kitchen worktop, a mug of fresh coffee cradled in his hands.

"Drinking your fucking coffee," Ralf responded blandly, taking an appreciative sip of the drink and allowing the slightly spiced, heavily fragrant steam to bathe his face. "Um. It's good. Colombian, no? Did you pick the beans yourself?"

"You're so full of shit." Juan flicked off the switch on the coffee-machine and took the half-full jug, dumping the rest of the contents down the sink. "I get my slaves to pick the beans while I cut multi-million dollar drug deals and snort coke off glass tables."

"Slaves, huh." Ralf took another draught of coffee. "Do you mistreat them?"

Juan folded his arms across his chest and stared at Ralf slowly. "Yeah. As a matter of fact, I do. I keep them under lock and key, and beat the crap out of them if they whine and complain."

"Really." Now Ralf tilted his head to one side, regarding Juan through a veil of steam that hazed his features. "And what if you, the master, whine and complain?"

Juan glowered. "I'm the master. Why should I complain?"

Ralf smiled gently. "Why indeed?"

"You read way too much into what I say," Juan said, trying to laugh it off.

"I'm not the one that provided the primer." Ralf licked at the rim of the mug and Juan watched him, suddenly thirsty and hungry at the same time.

"Jesus Christ, you think I'm upset because you won? Is that it?"

"So you're not bothered."

"Of course I'm bothered! I fucking hate it when I don't win -"

"- and the fact that you were told to hold position?"

Juan held up a hand. "I'll get over it."

"Certainly you will." Ralf dipped his head for another drink, swallowing slowly before he continued, "And will you get over the idea of being my number two driver?"

Juan counted to ten in Spanish and then in English before he smiled sweetly and said, "Drink your coffee, then get out. We don't have anything more to say to one another."

"In a minute. I wanted to hear more about the way you treat the slaves on your drug plantation."

"Coffee plantation," Juan corrected.

"Whatever. Same difference. Caffeine is a drug, too, isn't it – gets you high, at any rate," Ralf said, holding out the mug and inspecting its contents with almost scientific interest.

"You couldn't get high if you had a kite shoved up your arse," Juan muttered.

"Oh, I might," he responded, an unholy gleam in his eyes. "This really is good coffee. Try a taste." He offered the mug out to Juan, who came closer, lowering his arms and reaching for the coffee.

"Just drink it," Ralf said, refusing to let him take the mug. Juan had no option but to come even nearer, and then to bend his head to drink. Ralf obligingly tilted the mug, allowing a wash of the liquid to surge up to the rim, and Juan jumped back in shock at the unexpected heat of the coffee.

"Shit! That's hot!" he exclaimed, pulling away and rubbing the back of his hand over his lips. "Bastard coffee… How'd you stand it at that temperature?"

Ralf smiled as he took another mouthful. "You know what they say: if you can't stand the heat – get out of the kitchen."

Juan rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I'm going. Wanker! If you were my slave I'd – I'd -"

Ralf looked at him speculatively over the mug. "You'd what?"

"I'd probably… burn your fucking mouth the way you just burned mine," Juan finished lamely, shrugging and turning away.

There was a clunk as Ralf put down the mug. Juan glanced back to see his team-mate watching him, a hint of challenge in his eyes. He couldn't help but notice how his lips were moist, carrying the sheen of coffee; how the heat of the drink had made them full and pouted, as if he'd been kissed too hard… And then Ralf, knowing full well what he was doing, slowly and deliberately ran his tongue over his lips.

"Kiss it better?" he suggested huskily.

"Jesus," Juan said stupidly. "Fuck, yes -"

He wasn't sure who moved first, but suddenly Ralf was gripping his face and they were kissing fiercely, Juan's hands curled hard on Ralf's shoulders. The pressure of the kiss brought brief sparks of distant pain for Juan as his top lip throbbed with heat and he tried to pull back, even as Ralf dragged him forward, forward into his fierce mouth. Juan moaned in protest, smothering the complaint with the smoky, decadent taste of sweet coffee and catching desire from it as if the scent of his homeland woke more primitive urges.

He wanted Ralf's hands all over him. He wanted Ralf to paw him, maul him, to masturbate him – he needed nothing more than a hard, fast wank. Juan clutched at Ralf's shirt and tore at the buttons, wasting seconds trying to figure out a way to break through the layer of cloth so he could touch the pale skin that lay beneath. Before he could rip the shirt off completely, Ralf shoved him back against the wall of the kitchen area and took a hand from his face to grab his cock through his jeans.

Juan gasped, taking his mouth from Ralf's for precious seconds to groan his pleasure. Ralf had knocked the breath out of him, and while he tried to regain it, he felt the sharp poke of the cupboard's door handle against his spine. It was only marginally harder than Ralf's erection, Juan thought dazedly as Ralf pressed his cock tight against Juan's belly; and even then he doubted if Ralf could be as hard as he was, given up to the wasted gratification of being jerked off with easy, brutal familiarity through the harsh denim fabric.

His knees were weak; his ears roaring and his mouth slack and wet as Ralf reached down with his other hand, interrupting the rhythm of the wank only long enough to pull at the zipper on Juan's jeans and to delve inside, drawing his cock free from the damp cotton prison of his boxers. Juan was shuddering with need, careless of his breath as he sagged back against the cupboard and gasping unspeakable things in two different languages. Ralf was too good at this, Juan thought helplessly; Ralf could keep him balanced on that fine line between pain and pleasure the way that nobody else could, advancing in sharp peaks of ecstasy and then slowing to a trough where he wallowed in an agony of lust.

Juan began to jerk forwards, taking control of his need and thrusting into Ralf's fist, feeling the touch of the golden wedding band against his shaft with a guilt that was mind-blowing, reminding him of his own betrayal. The thought spurred him on, made him want to fuck Ralf rather than waste his seed in some empty-handed embrace; and when he managed to voice his wish in jagged, panting grunts against Ralf's neck, he was startled into even greater lust when Ralf complied.

They collapsed over the kitchen counter, hands in a blur of motion and Juan too turned on to even think of lube. Ralf twisted beneath him as they began to fuck, but it was not from pain, but from an anguish of wanting. Juan looked down at the tawny hair that curled over Ralf's collar, down at the solid straining muscles in the planes of his back as they moved under his shirt, and felt gloriously in control for the first time in weeks. Just the fact that he was fucking his team-mate into submission – never mind that it was a submission sought for and approved of – the mere fact that he had the upper hand was dizzyingly exciting. He tried to hold back and enjoy the moment, but Ralf was gasping now too, a low, dirty little growl that had Juan groping below the kitchen counter to wank him off, gripping Ralf's cock tight and rubbing the slipperiness of pre-cum up and down his shaft. Ralf arched up, moaning and shuddering as pleasure roared through him, and then he was coming, pumping into Juan's hand as he chased every last nuance of ecstasy. Too excited to last any longer, Juan held on tight and rode out his own pleasure, twitching deep inside Ralf's body until the last spasms exhausted themselves, and Juan was yelling things he normally never said to any other man.

But then, Ralf wasn't like any other man.

They stood still wrapped together for a few moments afterwards, pulses descending and breath hitching on the back of remembered pleasure. Then Ralf straightened up, brushing Juan away almost absently as he reached for a tea-towel and began to clean himself off.

Juan backed away, feeling vaguely ashamed of what they'd just done. He'd been able to resist Ralf for the previous nine races: how the hell could he have allowed himself to slip back into sin now, when there was so much at stake between them and within the team?

He'd never been able to resist him for long, though. Like caffeine, he needed a fix more often than he liked, and no amount of cold turkey was going to cure him of that particular affliction.

"Is that how you treat your slaves, then?" Ralf asked as he finished putting his clothing to rights.

"Huh?" Juan had all but forgotten their previous conversation. "Oh. Yeah. Does that mean you're gonna apply for a position as my slave, then?"

Ralf gave him a withering look. "Hardly. Remember, Juan: no matter what we meant to one another last year, each season wipes the slate clean. This year, you're the one playing catch-up."

Juan scowled. "That's not fair -"

"You're whining and complaining again."

He shut up, but finished by muttering, "I won't be your slave, Ralf."

"Oh, but you don't have to be. I just want you to be my number two driver."

"Two's company," Juan offered hopefully at his team-mate's departing back.

Ralf turned, his hand already on the latch of the door. "No," he corrected gently, with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, "two's a crowd."


End file.
